WILLIAM  ALEXANDER  PERCY 


SAPPHO    IN   LEVKAS 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

AND   OTHER  POEMS 


BY 
WILLIAM  ALEXANDER  PERCY 


NEW  HAVEN:   YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

LONDON:    HUMPHREY  MILFORD 

OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

MDCCCCXV 


COPYRIGHT,  1915 

BY 
YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 


First  printed  from  type,  October,  1915,  500  copies 


Copyright,  1911,  by  McClure's  Magazine 

Copyright,  1914,  by  Ainslee's  Magazine 

Copyright,  1914,  by  The  Yale  Review 

Copyright,  1914,  1915,  by  The  Colonnade 

Copyrig-r-  c,  1914,  1915,  b>;  Th^-  International 


'• 


llA) 


For  permission  to  include  in  this  collec 
tion  poems  which  have  already  appeared  in 
Ainslee's  Magazine,  The  Colonnade,  The  Inter 
national^  McClure's  Magazine  and  The  Yale 
Review,  the  author's  thanks  are  due  and  are 
hereby  extended  to  the  editors  of  those 
magazines. 


330472 


TO 
H.  B. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Song 1 

Sappho  in  Levkas 2 

Chorus  (After  the  Greek) 19 

To  a  Mocking-bird 20 

AU  Souls'  Day 22 

A  Page's  Road  Song  (13th  Century)     ....  24 

Soaring 25 

For  Music 26 

Autumn  Tune 27 

A  Sea-bird 28 

Ecstasy  (After  Verlaine) 29 

In  an  Autumn  Wood 30 

Prison  Song 31 

The  Return  of  the  Leaves 31 

March  Magic 32 

St.  Francis  to  the  Birds 33 

Arcady  Lost 44 

On  Leaving  Taormina 45 

Dusk:  Assuan 46 

The  Coast  of  Bohemia 47 

To  the  Mississippi 48 

In  Dalmatia 49 

Invocation 50 

To  Chatterton 51 

The  Silent  Singers 52 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

Wild  Geese 53 

Failure 54 

Ex^tate 55 

To  Milton 55 

To  Lucrezia 56 

A  Page  Sings        59 

Winter-fear 60 

To  a  Mocking-bird:  from  Taormina     ....  61 

After  Beading  the  RuMiy£t 62 

A  Winter's  Night 63 

At  Parting 64 

Before  Dawn 65 

Longing 66 

Phaon  in  Hades 68 

Girgenti 69 

The  Happy  Isles 73 

Epilogue 76 


[*] 


SAPPHO   IN   LEVKAS 


SONG 

0  singing  heart,  think  not  of  aught  save  song; 

Beauty  can  do  no  wrong. 
Let  but  th'  inviolable  music  shake 

Golden  on  golden  flake, 

Down  to  the  human  throng, 
And  one,  one  surely,  will  look  up  and  hear  and  wake. 

Weigh  not  the  rapture;  measure  not  nor  sift 

God's  dark,  delirious  gift; 
But  deaf  to  immortality  or  gain, 
Give  as  the  shining  rain, 
Thy  music  pure  and  swift, 

And  here  or  there,  sometime,  somewhere,  'twill  reach 
the  grain. 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

Zeus,  my  Father,  once  again 
I  stand  before  Thee ;  once,  and  then  no  more. 

Here  in  the  calm,  deep  night, 
Far,  far  from  Lesbos  and  the  madness  there, 
Here,  where  the  alien  sea  about  my  feet 
Is  clean  and  sacred  with  Thine  awe, 
I  come,  Sappho,  Thy  child  alone, 
To  speak  with  Thee  as  in  the  old,  exalted  days. 

In  this  last  hour, 
Before  the  cool,  regardless  hand  of  death 

Erase  me  quite,  desiring  most  to  be 
Most  noble,  I  would  break  like  nard  before 
Thy  night-encurtained  majesty  my  heart — 
From  hurt  or  shame  withholding  naught ; 

Tell  all,  give  thanks,  and  cease. 
Nor  would  I  have  the  flame  of  this,  my  prayer  and 

baring, 

Shake  with  the  breath  of  bitterness. 
Nor  stay  my  heart,  self -pitying, 
On  that  last  human  littleness, 
Resentment  'gainst  the  gods. 

Thanks,  Father,  for 
The  life  that  Thou  hast  given  me. 
For  it  was  high  and  full  of  joy — akin 
To  those  bright  mountain  spaces  where 
A  golden  exaltation  holds  the  peaks. 

[2] 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

Never,  methinks,  with  more  enamored  hand 
Hast  Thou  coaxed  fire  into  the  clay,  than  when 
In  Lesbos,  mine  own  mother  grew  with  me. 

To  Thee  be  thanks  that  in  all  life 
'Twas  mine  to  see  goodness;  that  I,  a  woman, 

Beyond  the  tragic  and  the  base  of  life, 
Have  seen  to  that  serenity  of  right  that  flows 

Increasingly  and  always  onward.    Mine 
Companions  were   that  proved  the  race   Thine   off 
spring  ; 
Heroes  and  kings,  sea-wanderers,  poets,  priests, — 

All,  all,  who,  fervent,  pass 
The  flame  of  righteousness  and  truth 
To  sequent  generations  yet  asleep ;  and  I 
Among  them  equal,  praised  and  loved. 
More,  Father;  Thou  hast  given  me  the  gift 

Of  fragrant,  fiery  speech. 
Beyond  the  violet-circled  isles,  yea,  to 
The  confines  of  the  habitable  world 
My  singing  reached;  nor  can  I  think 
The  time  comes  ever  when  the  hearts  of  men 

So  stripped  of  brightness  be 
But  they  will  shake  with  rapture  of  my  songs. 
Thou  hast  made  beauty  mine  own  element, 

Taught  me  to  drift,  a  burnished  leaf, 
Down  the  long  winds  of  ecstasy; 
And  ever  loveliness  has  swept  my  heart 
With  lyric  hand  of  rapture.    Mine  to  feel 
The  majesty  and  tears  and  color  of  the  sea ; 

The  awe  and  high  obedience  of  the  stars ; 
To  watch  at  eve  the  saffron  of  Thy  garment's  hem; 

[31 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

To  wake  unto  Thy  midnight  messengers, 
The  purple  winds  that  roam  infinity. 
Yea,  I,  undoubtingly,  have  known 
The  signs  of  immanent  divinity 
In  darkness,  dawn,  and  dusk ;  and  most, 
In  music's  passioning,  when  on  the  green, 

Beneath  a  frail,  enchanted  moon, 
Some  bard  with  mad,  pale  mouth  sang  urgently ! 

To  think  nobility  like  mine  could  be 
Flawed — shattered  utterly — and  by — 
This,  this  the  shame,  0  Zeus,  that  Thou  must  hear- 

A  slim,  brown  shepherd  boy  with  windy  eyes 

And  spring  upon  his  mouth! 
Mine  Thou  hast  made  the  courage  to  face  truth, 

Tho '  truth  were  death ;  but  face  alone  ! 

Before  Thine  eyes  to  strip  my  passion  till 
Naked  its  evil  gleams — here — now — oh,  all 

The  harsh  and  iron  of  my  soul  must  forth 
Ere  shame's  rebellion  in  my  blood  be  quelled, 

And  Thou  familiar  made  with  my  reproach !  . 
Courage  and  truth,  these  two  are  not  of  earth ! 
Hearken  Thou,  Zeus,  and  judge  if,  at  the  last, 

In  spite  of  all,  I  am  not  half  divine, 
Loving  these  two. 

It  was  the  hour  of  fleeing  stars — 
If  I  should  live  to  see  a  million  dawns, 
Each  magic  with  a  strange  perfection  of  its  own, 

The  memory  of  none  could  stir  as  that 
The  pool  of  tears  and  longing  here  within. 
The  hour  of  fleeing  stars — 
[  4  ] 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

And  I,  too,  fled  into  the  stillness, 
Up  from  the  quiet  village  to  the  hills 
Where  walk  the  morning-mooded  gods. 

A  dawn  of  dew  and  hyacinths, 
With  grey-eyed,  silver-footed  April  loose 
Upon  the  hills.    The  arching  air — the  last  few  stars — 
Each  little  leaf,  tho'  hushed,  a- tremble  to 
The  throbbing  up  of  azure-hearted  spring. 
The  upper  meadows  I  had  gained, 

When  on  the  eager  silence  came  a  sound, 
A  sleepy  sound  of  many  little  feet. 
Above  the  road  I  drew  me  up,  and  watched 
The  flock  drift  by.    They  passed,  a  huddled  herd, 

Shyly,  and  after  them,  with  loitering  foot 
And  bent,  dark-curling  head,  the  shepherd  lad. — 
Down,  down,  0  heart  of  mine ! — I  feared  to  breathe 
Lest  breathing  wake  me  from  a  dear  enchantment ; 
I  dared  not  move,  lest  moving  stir  the  spell  .   .  . 
So  leaned  above  the  roadside — gazing — 
Drinking  the  poison  of  his  loveliness. 
For  he  was  lovelier  than  the  youthful  day ; 
More  beautiful  than  silver,  naked  Ganymede ! 
Slowly  he  came  beneath  me  on  the  road — 

And  suddenly  I  heard 
The  tremulous,  soft  magic  give  me  speech. 
'  *  Shepherd,  thy  name  ! "    He  raised  his  head ; 
The  wonder  of  his  mouth  and  eyes  and  carven  throat 

Flooded  me.    And  he  smiled.    So  full 
Of  sweetness  were  those  eyes,  those  curving  lips, 
A  music  as  of  tears  swept  through  my  veins ; 
[  5  ] 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

And  when  his  voice  rose,  answering, 
As  cool,  unhurt,  and  clear  it  was 
As  is  the  bird-souled  break  of  day. 
' '  Phaon, ' '  he  said,  and,  smiling  still,  passed  on. — 
Thus,  Zeus,  at  dawn,  seeking  as  was  my  wont, 

The  viewless  god's  companionship, 
Phaon  I  met,  himself  in  curve  and  color  godlike, 
And,  meeting  him,  lost  Thee ! 

"When  shining  day  aroused  the  earth  and  me, 
I  turned  me  from  that  roadside  home,  full-fledged 

In  Aphrodite.    Not  the  gales  of  spring 
Dashing  the  tenuous,  frayed  clouds  high  up  the  sky, 
"Were  plumed  with  wilder  rapture  than  my  heart ! 
Nor  was  the  earth's  red  longing  for  fruition 

More  hot  than  mine  for  Phaon  .   .   . 
Oh,  I  had  loved  the  colors  of  the  world, 
All  lofty  things,  all  daring  enterprise, 
The  glint  and  foam  of  life 's  adventuring ! 
That  hour  changed  all  the  world  and  me ! 
Cool  sleep  became  a  haunted  thing, 
Full  of  the  boy  untruly  amorous ; 
And  waking,  pain — a  disillusionment 
That  filled  the  lonely  day  with  thirst. 
At  dawn,  at  dusk,  my  feet  sought  out  the  hills 
Beloved  of  shepherd  folk,  that,  haply,  sight  of  him 

Might  stay  the  burning  here. 
To  glimpse  his  loveliness,  to  hear  his  voice 
Answering  lightly  my  light  questionings 

Was  sweetness  more  than  mortal  thing, 
More  than  the  gods'  ambrosial  dalliance — 

[6] 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

And  bitterness,  my  heart,  and  bitterness ! 
Oh,  I  grew  studious  in  unlearning  life, 

Till  I  could  feign  simplicity, 
And  use  the  simple  speech  of  shepherd  folk. 
My  utmost  intellect  was  bent  to  plan 

Assurance  of  chance  meetings ; 
My  craft  in  beauty  to  devise  which  way 
The  yellow  crocus  in  my  hair  might  take  his  praise. 

At  feasts  and  country  festivals, 
"When  came  the  dark  and  stars,  I,  too,  came,  there 

To  see  his  bending  body  in  the  dance. 
With  not  more  grace,  beneath  the  twilight  breeze 
Bending,  the  long-stemmed  asphodel  is  swayed. 
But  always  something  of  his  grace, 
His  inextinguishable  happiness, 

Would  seem  to  break  my  heart,  and  I  would  long  to  be 
Freed  from  that  loneliness  men  call  esteem, 
And  there  within  the  dance,  a  country  wench, 
Touching  his  shining  arms,  and  breathing  close 
His  lithe  and  burning  youth. 

0  Thou  hast  known 
The  thousand  years  and  each  year 's  thousand  lovers — 

What  need  to  tell  the  pangs  and  tricks  of  clay 
Common  to  all;  yea,  e'en  at  last  to  me,  Thy  child! 
Father,  it  seemed  not  evil  then — so  sweet 
He  was ;  and  I,  who,  most  of  all  the  world 

Loved  purity  and  loathed  lust, 
Became  the  mark  of  mine  own  scorning  ere 

I  knew — he  was  so  sweet ! 
A  something  from  the  freshness  of  the  woods, 
Of  cool  and  shining  leaves,  of  laggard  winds, 

[7  ] 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

His  beauty  seemed  to  catch.    I  think 
The  momentary  blood  that  lights  the  rose 
Fired  his  veins  with  vintage  of  delight 

Perpetually.    No  lovelier 

The  first  strong  tulip,  whose  crimson  arrogance 
Lords  it  above  blythe  Eresos,  and  daunts 
The  lesser  darlings  of  pale  April,  than 
His  mouth  .  .   .  And  this,  a  shepherd  boy ! 
His  thoughts  the  thoughts  of  shepherds ;  his  desires, 
The  bread  and  water  cravings  of  the  poor. 
No  trembling  from  the  madness  of  my  songs 
Could  reach  his  heart ;  no  lofty  converse  call 

One  cloud  of  questioning  within 
His  strange,  unshadowed,  listening  eyes. 
His  lore  was  of  the  leaves,  the  clouds,  the  winds, 
What  time  the  fields,  a-frost  with  heliotrope, 
Yield  richer  pasturage;  what  time, 
The  starrier  meadows  of  wild  broom. 

This,  this  my  lover !    Mine,  whose  choice  of  mate 
Was  bidden  guest  in  all  the  courts 

And  goodly  palaces  of  Greece ! 
Lo,  I,  whose  name  was  crowned  thro '  all  the  isles 

With  praise  and  reverence, 
Grew  stranger  to  the  life  that  had  been  mine ; 

Transmuted  from  the  very  certitude 
Of  right  example  to  reproach ;  become 
As  vacillant,  weak  flame  before  the  wind  of  lust. 
Yet,  not,  0  Father,  stained  with  deed  of  wantonness. 
I  could  not  quite  escape  that  holiness 
[  8  ] 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

The  sacred  years  had  bred ! 
Methinks,  the  shepherd  boy  will  never  know 

But  that  one  fragrant  with  a  nobleness 
He  dimly  felt,  had  found  him  for  a  space 
In  some  strange  wise  companionable. 
And  at  the  last  he  loved  me,  Zeus !    Oh,  not 
As  lovers  love — less  than  the  shepherds'  strife 

Of  skill,  less  than  the  glowing  dance, 
Or  merry  gossip  when  the  wine-vat  teems. 
This  irony  for  only  anodyne 
Of  all  my  pain  Thou  tenderest  me — 
Out  of  the  evil  of  my  passioning  came  good ! 
For  Phaon,  Phaon  loved  me  as  a  goddess  sent, 
And,  curbing  grossness,  looked  to  me  for  praise  . 

Perhaps  his  blood  was  clean  of  lust, 
The  mountains  and  the  winds  being  pure, 
Or  else  his  years,  maturing  loveliness, 

Left  green  that  mortal  taint. 
0  soft,  soft  lies,  beguile  me  not ! 

Altho'  by  me  unroused, 

No  doubt  his  manhood's  proof  will  flaunt  before 

The  red  and  white  of  some  broad-bosomed  wench 

Of  his  own  kind — when  I  am  gone ! 

Oh,  swiftly,  swiftly,  scorning  shame, 
Tell  all,  my  heart,  and  make  perpetual  end  .   .   . 

Thou  send  'st  to  mortals  night  as  comforter ; 
And  when  the  rounded  moon  breathes  up  the  east, 
Dost  think  to  ease  our  most  immedicable  griefs 
With  loveliness.    But  I  am  still 
Weary  and  broken  with  the  memory 
[  9  ] 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

Of  such  a  night,  vouchsafed  lately. 
Lesbos,  my  own,  lay  drowned  beneath 
The  warm  and  argent  flood  of  light — so  still, 
The  very  olive  trees  unstirring  slept 
A  silver  sleep.    But,  ah,  to  me  the  night 
Was  terrible  with  perfumes  from  the  hair 
And  breasts  of  Aphrodite;  within  my  blood, 
Unstaunchable,  surged  all  the  undertow  of  spring, 
Dragging  my  soul  unto  the  sea  that  knows  no  law. 
Haggard  and  parched,  love 's  frenzy  caught  me  up 
And  bore  me  from  my  dream-hot  bed  into  the  night. 
My  feet  unconscious  chose  those  pastures  known 
To  love.    The  way  was  haunted  with  him ;  here 
He  stood;  here  leaned  upon  his  crook  to  watch  the 

dawn; 

Here  lifted  up  the  wonder  of  his  eyes. 
And  on  the  visioning  leapt  all  the  pity  of 
My  life — vexing  and  hounding  me. 

About  me,  moonlight,  stillness,  empty  night ; 

Distraught,  I  stumbled  on. 
A  light,  near  footstep  sounded  suddenly; 
I  lifted  filmy  eyes ;  saw ;  reeled ;  and  saw 
Again — Phaon,  the  shepherd.    Then  madness  broke. 

His  argent  throat  and  arms, 
His  mouth,  the  dew,  the  tenderness — 0  God ! — 

I  bent  me  to  him  with  the  flaming  cry, 
1 '  Phaon — I  love  thee ;  one  kiss,  one  kiss — Phaon ! ' ' 
A  silence  came.    The  night  grew  huge  and  cold. 

Silence.    I  lifted  heavily, 
A  nightmare  weight,  my  lids  and  looked  upon  the  boy. 

[  10] 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

Amazement  held  him,  wonder ;  quick 
His  eyes  avoided  mine,  then,  dubious,  sought ; 
And  in  the  miserable  stillness  there, 
I  watched  the  radiance  leave  his  face, 
And  pain  steal  up  like  age.    Within  me  died 
All  fire.    I  closed  my  eyes ;  the  night  whirled  past. 

Anguish  like  bolted  lightning  showed 

In  that  long  instant  what  myself  had  been  to  him — 

One  alien  to  the  lowness  of  his  life; 

Almost  a  holy  thing,  a-stir  with  God, 

That  now  revealed  stood  of  common  grossness. 

As  dreadful  as  their  lovelessness, 
The  scorning  that  I  knew  his  eyes  would  show ! 
Tho'  never  loved,  yet  never  to  be  loathed — 
That  mean  respect  at  least  my  pride  might  save ! 
I  woke,  beheld  the  desperate  urgency, 
And  faced  him  with  a  lie  that  heaven  sent. 
"0  shepherd,  I  leave  Lesbos,  home,  and  thee 
At  dawn.    Good-bye. ' '    Then  hid  from  him  my  face, 

And  bowed  before  the  surge  of  agony. 
I  needed  not  to  see  his  joyous  tenderness 
Pulse  back ;  I  knew,  how  bitterly ! 
Before  him,  broken,  cold,  and  blind,  I  felt 
Him  take  me  in  his  arms,  all  gentleness, 
And  on  my  mouth  lay  his,  a  long,  long  kiss. 

The  music  of  his  voice  was  far  away; 
' '  Come  soon  again  to  Lesbos  and  the  shepherds  here 
Who  love  thee"  .  .  . 

Thus, 

As  I  had  prayed,  I  lay  upon  his  breast, 
And  in  his  cloudy  glamour  was  wrapped  close, 

[11] 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

And  breathed  the  fragrance  of  his  neck  and  hair — 

Yet  not  as  I  had  prayed.    Midmost 
The  snatch  of  starved,  impossible  delight — 
His  lips  to  mine — the  reeling  moonlight — passion— 
I  knew  the  irony,  the  tragic  mockery. 
While  yet  I  clung  to  him,  he  seemed 
Almost  a  child,  sweet  as  a  child  is  sweet, 

Unsparingly;  and  I — 
Old — in  the  world  and  sin  and  vision,  old ; 
He  but  a  shepherd  boy ;  and  I — Sappho ! 
So  when  he  had  released  me  from  his  arms, 
Stricken  and  blind,  with  one  swift  kiss 
Upon  his  brow,  one  sobbed  ' '  Good-bye, ' '  I  turned ; 
So,  fleeing,  down  into  the  darkness. 

Unto  perfection  I  was  born ; 
The  shepherd  boy,  who  would  not  see  my  sin, 
Eecalled  me  to  myself.    That  was  the  end  .  .  . 
Imperative  to  keep  my  soul  superb, 
For  his  sake,  mine,  and  Thine, 
And  one  sole  method  to  that  end. 
But  lest  my  resolution  should  be  wax 
Beneath  his  nearness,  and  because  I  chose 

To  speak  with  Thee  apart,  in  calm, 
I  minded  me  of  those,  my  lying  words. 
Therefore,  when  morning  bore  the  harbor  ships 

Upon  their  devious,  blue  wanderings, 
Myself,  beneath  a  glistening  sail,  wide-eyed, 
Gazed  on  the  fading  island  that  I  loved, 
A  last,  long  time  on  Lesbos  .  .  . 
[  12  ] 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

Think  not,  0  Zeus,  I  render  me  to  death 
Because  the  shepherd  loved  me  not. 
Such  pain  as  many  mortals  bear, 
Myself  would  scorn  to  shun. 
Sterner  than  unrequited  love  the  cause, 

And  not  unpitiful.  .   .   .  Perhaps  in  time 
My  burnt,  high-bosomed  beauty  might  have  lured 

His  blood — No,  no !  not  that !  not  possible ! 
Hearken,  0  God,  the  truth,  the  utter  truth ! 

Had  mine  been  siren  sorcery 
To  draw  him  tremulous  to  my  desire, 
And  had  he  answered  love  with  love, 
Passion  with  passion,  ardent  equally — 
I  know  that  I  had  cooled — the  wanton's  trick — 
Found  tedious  what  had  been  bliss,  grown  strange, 
At  last,  despised !    More — more — I  stifle — 

If  far  from  Lesbos  and  from  him 
I  should  remain — I  should  forget  the  boy ! 
And  this — indignant  heart  of  mine,  I  will  not  lie — 

Could  Phaon's  magic  pass, 
Yet  other  snares,  perhaps  as  sweet — if  such 
Could  be, — would  trap  and  madden  me  as  his. 
Some  summer-tinted  mouth,  some  curved  throat ; 
The  Bacchic  grace  of  some  young  body,  bare 
And    glistening     in    the     games — I    know  .    .    . 

know  .   .   . 

Perhaps  some  throbbing,  lawless-eyed  barbarian, 
Sea-burnt,  gorgeous,  and  bestial — 
Surely,  not  that,  my  God! 
But  always  I  shall  be 

[  13  ] 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

Hurt  with  the  vehemence  of  too,  too  perfect  beauty ; 

Bare  and  resistless  always 
To  all  the  sorceries  of  fair,  fair  flesh !  .   .   . 

Enough  .  .  .  The  truth  hath  sickened  me  ... 
But  all  is  told,  and  now  comes  rest. 
I  would  make  calm  my  brow  and  heart  for  death. 
One  step  across  this  darkling  cliff,  and  in 

The  ocean's  weary  breathing  I  am  caught, 
Made  one,  assuaged  forever.    Yet  I  pause  .  .  . 
The  bitter  sea  with  its  pale  tentacles 
Of  foam  half  seen  below  my  feet  cannot 
Now  make  me  truckle  unto  cowardice, 
Who  knew  not  fear  in  life  .  .  .  But  is  it  life, 
Not  death,  I  dare  not  face?     'Tis  surely  ill 
The  wine  of  life  to  spill  contemptuously, 
Wearied,  in  wantonness,  or  in  despite. 
If,  though,  the  wine  of  its  own  nature  sour, 

Lose  all  the  jewel  and  the  perfume,  shall 
The  drinker  pause  to  cast  it  back  to  earth? 

Why  spare  the  rose 
Doomed  to  the  worm?    The  soul  incurably 

Hurt  with  a  crescent  sin  ?    T '  avoid 
The  loosened  shaft  of  seen  necessity 
Is  wisdom,  not  some  trick  of  fear. 

To  me,  my  kinship  with  immortal  things 

Hath  been  too  clear  revealed  that  I  should  watch 
With  willingness  my  retrogression  to  the  clay 

And  baseness  mortals  own  as  parent. 
Either  the  starry,  wind-swept,  sea-enraptured  soul 

[  14] 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

Of  me,  myself,  myself  shall  last  unto  the  end, 
Or  summonable  death  shall  quench  me  out 

Undimmed,  exalted  still. 
No  cowardice,  0  Zeus,  I  swear ! 
With  all  my  spirit  I  have  ever  fought 
Life 's  battles ;  nor  testing  conflict  shunned, 
"When  righteousness  made  part.    But  when  the  enemy 
Thou  sett'st  against  me  is  the  sacred  element, 

The  prime  nobility  that  wings  my  spirit, 
What  boots  the  battle  ?    And  the  event — defeat 

Or  victory  alike — is  utter  ruin. 
To  me  hath  beauty  been  the  ripple  and  the  light 

That  proved  a  sea  divine, 
Sweeping  the  stars,  our  little  universe,  all,  all, 
Into  the  wave  of  some  sublime  and  glittering  doom. 
Oh,  always  beauty  was  to  me 
Thyself  half  seen,  my  Father. 
In  windy  leaves  and  grass,  thy  laughter  loose, 
In  yellow  noon,  thy  nectared,  slumberous  ease, 
Thy  clean  and  lofty  joy  in  high,  sun-striken  woods, 
In  storms  thy  restlessness,  thyself 

In  this  vast,  darkling  sea. 
And  this  same  beauty  now  betrayeth  me. 
So  long  as  life  by  it  is  made  divine, 
So  long  by  it  am  I  made  harlot-hearted. 

No  cure,  no  cure !  but  oh, 
That  such  perfection  in  such  wise  should  be 

Rifted,  and  out  of  harmony ! 
Methinks,  Thyself,  the  author  of  the  flaw, 
Must  doubt  Thy  fathering  wisdom. 
Indeed,  indeed,  beneath  their  calm  content, 

[15] 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

Thou  and  the  other  gods  must  feel  the  tears 
That  make  the  human  breast  almost  divine, 

To  see  me  thus,  alone  and  lonely, 
That  once  was  Sappho,  song  o '  the  world.  .  .  . 

And  yet  no  wind  of  heaven  beareth  me 
Breath  of  compassioning.  .   .  .  Perhaps  they  laugh  or 

scorn. 

Oh,  can  it  be  that  in  the  halls  of  heaven 
The  very  gods  are  tainted  with  the  Cyprian 's  sin  ? 
What  if  the  bestial  gossip  told  of  them  be  true, 
And  too  authentic  be  the  lecherous  tales 
Of  lo  and  the  rest  ? 

Then  will  I  break  with  all  the  gods, 
And  more  divine  than  they,  snuff  out  this  flame 
Ere  it  be  vile  with  universal  degradation ! 
0  night,  0  night,  am  I  the  only  struggling  thing  ? 

Doth  any  cry  save  mine  rise  to  thy  stars 
Against  the  tyranny  of  flesh  and  mortal  grossness? 

0  mothering  darkness,  fold 

Obliteration  closer  round  me,  for 

Mine  eyes  blur,  and  my  throat  is  hurt 

With  welling  pain.  .   .   .  Tears,  tears, 
Ye  rob  me  of  the  little  left  me,  godly  pride, 

And  leave  me  woman.  .  .  . 
And  I  had  thought  the  hour  that  summed 
And  closed  my  lonely  struggle  for  perfection, 
Had  been  a  thing  of  triumph.    It  is  pitiful. 
Leaning  across  this  sea  here  in  the  night, 

A  moment's  space  from  death,  I  can  recall 
No  old,  high  legend  whereupon  to  lean  my  heart. 

[  16  ] 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

Instead,  I  seem  to  know  the  rain-grey,  hungering  eyes 
Calypso  bent  across  the  surge  that  gave 
And  took  forever  her  delight. 

The  deep  air,  too,  seems  somehow  cleansed  with  tears, 
And  cooler  grown.    The  stars  are  not  so  close. 
A  breath  of  silver  up  the  sky !    Again — 

Dawn!  dawn!    0  Zeus, 
The  dawn  that  I  had  thought  to  never  see ! 
Eastward  the  cold  light  brims  into  the  sky 
And  joyous  sweeps  away  the  stars  that  watched  with 

me. 
They  come  no  more.   .    .    .  Dawn.   .    .    .  Dawn,  and 

spring  again ! 

This  grey  and  lucent  hour,  light  sleep 

Steals  from  the  shepherds'  clustered  curls, 

And  leaves  them  dewy  as  the  bended  grass. 

At  home  it  is  a  dawn  of  dew  and  hyacinths, 

With  silver-footed  April  loose  upon  the  hills. 

Along  the  curving  road  the  flocks 
Lag  half  asleep,  lag,  but  still  come 

Nearer  and  nearer  till — 
Oh,  the  insufferable  beauty  of  his  bending  head! 

O  home  !    0  Lesbos  ! 
To  lean  above  that  roadside,  breathless, 
And  see  again  the  shepherd  boy  I  love — 
His  thonged  and  sandalled  grace — 

His  bare,  brown  throat — 
The  violets  careless  round  his  head — 
Those  eyes  of  spring  and  unawakened  fire — 
The  dew  and  roses  of  the  mouth  that  once  I  kissed ! 
Forget,  forget  all  else,  0  gods,  and  grant  this  boon ! 

[  17  ] 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

Bear  me  back  home  to  Lesbos  and  the  boy ! 

Steep  me  but  one  short  hour  in  his  love ! 

Oh,  let  the  anguished  crimson  of  his  mouth 
Seek  fire  from  mine,  and  all  his  brown,  light  grace 
Flame  into  strength  to  crush  my  paleness ;  let 

His  morning  eyes  know  drought  and  noon, 
The  haze  of  hidden  tears,  the  film  of  hope, 

And  me  the  only  cool  and  dew. 
One  misty,  scarlet  kiss  within  your  arms — 

Phaon !    Phaon ! 
I  would  forswear  song — beauty — Zeus,  my  father  .  .  . 

Ah, — madness — madness — uncoil,  old  anguish !  .    .    . 

Ah! 

0  cool,  grey  wind  of  dawn  !    0  sea ! — 
Thou  harlot-hearted  woman,  sleep  ! 
And  wake  thou,  Sappho,  leafy-templed  child  of  God  I 

Upon  the  lovely  world  another  day.  .  .  . 
Come,     fearless,     piteous     heart     of     mine  .  .   . 

come.  .   .   . 
At  last  the  comfort  and  the  cleansing  of  the  sea. 


[  18] 


*• 

CHORUS 

(After  the  Greek) 

Surely  in  no  benignant  mood 
The  gods  have  fashioned  us,  but  craftily 

To  send  us  homing  to  the  sod 
Wise  only  in  our  own  futility. 

"With  hyacinthine  brows  of  youth, 
We  enter  life  as  to  a  festival ; 

But,  ere  the  feast  is  spread,  the  gods 
Snatch  back  the  wine,  the  song,  the  coronal. 

And,  lusterless,  we  turn,  afraid, 
Turn  to  the  sole  vouchsafed  heritage, 

And  in  the  shaken  darkness  clutch 
The  disenchanted  ledges  of  old  age. 


TO  A  MOCKING-BIRD 

Thy  taunting  happiness, 
Thy  overbold  upflashing  bliss, 
Pierces  my  heart  to-night,  0  mocking-bird ! 
Beneath  the  limpid  surge  of  darkness, 
The  awe  of  stars  and  all  the  hush, 
Thou  flingest  far  thy  little  joy,  unawed — 
Flushed  with  some  momentary  triumph, 

Or  stray,  delicious  whim. 
The  tumult  of  thy  silver  mockery 
Shakes  through  the  trees,  across  the  tranced  lawn, 
And  rouses  weariness  to  pain  within  my  heart. 

Cease,  cease  thy  rapture ! 
To-night  the  courage  and  the  joy  are  gone ; 
I  would  forget  the  battles  and  the  ceaseless  clash, 
The  long,  rewardless  surge  of  strife, 
The  race  run  and  no  laurels, 
The  fight  fought  and  no  guerdon. 
To-night,  only  to-night,  'tis  sweet 
No  more  to  buffet  with  the  winds  of  grief 
But  bend  to  them,  luxuriously  abandoned. 
Again  the  light  notes  leap 
In  gusts  of  gaiety ! 
Ah,  bird,  thy  song,  derisive  of  defeat 
And  age  and  the  inevitable  doom, 
Is  but  the  song  of  mine  own  people — 

The  conquerors,  the  unafraid — 
And  thou,  in  thy  bright  arrogance  and  fearless  bliss 

[  20  ] 


TO  A  MOCKING-BIED 

Summest  the  spirit  of  a  newer  age, 

The  unprophetic  confidence 
Of  this  new-sinewed  western  world. 

Cease,  cease  thy  song  of  triumph  and  unwisdom ! 
To-night  I  long  to  hear  an  alien  sweetness  that 

Long  vision  hath  made  sad. 
Oh,  for  a  silver-steeped  garden  overseas, 
Hung  with  too  poignant  perfumes, 
Where  thy  frail  sister  lifts  her  piteous  cry, 

Her  little  hidden  cry, 
Sharp  with  a  hundred  centuries  of  pain, 

Hurt  with  the  constant  woe, 
The  weariness  and  all  the  tears 
Of  generations  that  have  gone,  darkly ! 
Oh,  to  forget  this  western  flaunt  of  living ! 

To  breathe  in  those  far  lands  that  air 
Breathed  by  dreamers  dead,  lovely  and  purposeless; 
To  hear  the  anguished  nightingale  that  Sappho  heard ; 
To  see  beneath  the  moon  the  olive  trees 

And  cypresses  asleep,  as  when  Antinous, 
"With  eastern-scented  brows  and  poppy  lids 

Looked  forth,  godlike,  upon  them ; 
To  catch,  perhaps, — the  myrtle  boughs  between — 
Glimpse  of  that  unforgettable,  sweet  sea 
That  heard  of  yore  Sicilian  shepherd  boys 
Piping  across  their  shining  pastures, 
That  still,  upon  the  shores  of  Ithaca, 
Beareth  the  blue,  Homeric,  star-entangled  tide ! 


[  21  ] 


ALL  SOULS'  DAY 

Quiet  with  amber  light 
The  pale  enfolding  afternoon ; 

In  sleep  the  slow  leaves  fall ; 
Tranquil  as  misting  tears  or  swoon, 

The  pendent  blue  that  bears 
No  cloud  except  the  daylight  moon. 

Opal,  a-drowse,  and  vast, 
The  river  takes  its  southward  way ; 

And  southwards  sweep  the  birds, 
Swift  and  mysterious  and  grey.  .  .  . 

Do  so  the  gusty  dead 
Wing  the  warm  air  in  troops  to-day? 

Surely  this  peacefulness 
Of  feathered  fields  of  golden-rod, 

The  wistful,  songless  trees, 
And  asters  clouding  from  the  sod, 

Them,  homing,  lure  from  out 
The  bleak  infinitudes  of  God. 

Oh,  surely  all  the  south 
Our  prayers  and  dear  remembrance  make 

Calls  from  the  cold,  blue  tides 
Their  wings  to-day,  and  they  forsake 

Their  solemn  ways  for  us, 
Remembering  death  and  all  the  ache. 

[  22  ] 


ALL  SOULS'  DAY 

And  thou,  so  lately  one — 
Not  all  the  new  adventuring 

In  starry  realms  can  hold 
Thee  from  return.    To-day  thy  wing, 

Pausing  above  my  heart, 
Doth  courage  and  assurance  bring. 


[  23  ] 


A  PAGE'S  ROAD  SONG 

(13th  Century] 

Jesu, 

If  Thou  wilt  make 
Thy  peach  trees  bloom  for  me, 
And  fringe  my  bridle  path  both  sides 

"With  tulips,  red  and  free, 
If  Thou  wilt  make  Thy  skies  as  blue 

As  ours  in  Sicily, 
And  wake  the  little  leaves  that  sleep 

On  every  bending  tree — 
I  promise  not  to  vexen  Thee 
That  Thou  shouldst  make  eternally 
Heaven  my  home ; 
But  right  contentedly, 
A  singing  page  I'll  be 
Here,  in  Thy  springtime, 
Jesu. 


[  24  ] 


SOARING 

My  heart  is  a  bird  to-night 
That  streams  on  the  washed,  icy  air. 

My  heart  is  a  bird  to-night 
'Twixt  the  stars  and  the  branches  bare. 

My  heart  is  abroad  to-night 
Rushed  on  by  the  fierce,  crystal  air. 

No  nest  will  it  seek  to-night 
In  the  branches,  ice-brittle  and  bare. 

Wide-winged  my  heart  to-night 
With  joy  on  the  surge  of  the  air. 

What  matter  that  spirits  of  night 
Make  shudder  the  trees,  lean  and  bare ! 


[  25  ] 


FOR  MUSIC 

0  singer,  canst  thou  summon  up 
The  early  blue-bird's  wing? 

The  pang  of  those  uncertain  days 
That  swoon  with  unborn  spring? 

0  singer,  canst  thou  summon  up 

The  crimson  of  the  rose, 
The  silver  gloom  of  April  dawns, 

The  breathless  unrepose ; 

The  yearning  in  the  dark  divine, 

Deep  woods,  a-bloom  and  dumb, 

The  starry,  tear-blurred  nights  of  May 
That  bring  delirium? 

0  singer,  canst  thou  summon  up 

In  music  all  the  spring 
Whose  crowding  incense  caught  my  heart 

So  long  ago  ? — Then  sing ! 


[  26  ] 


AUTUMN  TUNE 

Sweeter  than  spring,  sweeter  than  spring, 
These  brown  and  blue  and  lingering 

Soft  days  that  wing 
Like  filmy  dreams  across  the  world, 
One  by  one  unfurled,  unfurled, 
"Where  the  ripe  fields  slumber  and  glitter  and  swing. 

Sadder  than  song,  sadder  than  song, 
The  choral  drowse  with  madness  strong 

That  all  day  long 

The  locusts  lift  to  their  god  the  sun, 
For  joy  of  the  life  that  is  almost  done — 
Raptured  and  shrill  and  regretless  throng. 

Wilder  than  wings,  wilder  than  wings, 
The  flight  of  the  golden  leaves  when  springs 

The  fear  that  flings 

Them  swirling  and  shining  up  from  the  bare 
Dark  branches  that  reach  to  the  calm  of  the  air 
Where  death  is  a-dream  on  azure  wings. 


[  27  ] 


A  SEA-BIRD 

I  cry,  I  cry 
Into  the  night. 
Along  the  waves 
I  gleam  and  fly 
A  haunted  flight ; 
A  cry,  a  cry 
Into  the  night. 

Lone,  alone, 

And  the  sea  is  mad. 

Mourning,  mourning, 

Broken  and  strown, 

It  nurseth  the  dead, 

The  dead  alone — 

And  my  heart  that  is  mad. 


[  28  ] 


ECSTASY 

(After  Verlaine) 

The  moon  shines  now 
White  in  the  woods; 
From  every  bough 
Cometh  in  floods 
A  voice  divine  .  .  . 
O  love  of  mine ! 

The  pool  of  jet, 
Deep  mirror  sees 
In  silhouette 
The  willow  trees 
That  moan  and  gleam 
0  hour  of  dream  ! 

Tender  and  vast, 
A  peacefulness 
Drifts  downward  past 
The  shadowless 
Star-purple  night  .  .   . 
Hour  of  delight ! 


[  29  ] 


IN  AN  AUTUMN  WOOD 

Thou,  too,  0  bronze-eyed  darling  of  the  feast, 
Under  the  deep,  brown  leaves  and  faded  sky 

At  last  wilt  lie, 
Forgetful  of  the  joy  thy  beauty  leased. 

But  ere  that  time,  how  many  times,  alas, 

Wilt  thou  with  careless  hand  sweep  all  the  vain, 

Taut  strings  of  pain 
That  are  my  heart  nor  hear  the  hurt  chords  pass. 

Almost  I  wish  to-day  that  thou  didst  lie 
Beyond  the  leaves,  unsummonably  still — 

So  well,  so  ill 
I  love  thy  loveliness  that  hears  no  cry. 


PRISON  SONG 

Beat,  beat,  wings  of  my  heart, 

Stormy  and  swift  as  you  will ! 

Beat  and  break,  but  the  walls  of  the  world 

Will  hold  you  captive  still. 

Oh,  the  bird  of  the  moon  flies  into  the  west 
To  dip  in  the  sun's  lagoon, 
And,  following  her,  the  wild  geese  blur 
In  the  depths  of  a  golden  swoon. 

But,  heart  of  mine,  0  bird  of  my  heart, 
Tho'  they  curve  to  the  sunken  stars, 
You  follow  not  with  the  strain  of  your  wings, 
For  between — the  iron  bars. 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  LEAVES 

Leaves  and  the  sweet-choired  blue; 
And  my  heart  set  free  again. 
Leaves,  leaves  and  the  dew ; 
Free,  but  not  free  from  pain. 

The  laughter  of  June  is  shed ; 
And  my  heart  gives  heed  again. 
But,  ah,  for  youth  that  is  fled, 
Fled,  with  all  but  its  pain. 
[  31  ] 


MARCH  MAGIC 

Once  more  the  fickle  birds  return 

Across  the  sloping  seas, 
And  strew  the  tender  fields  again 

With  their  old  melodies. 

The  sky  is  magic  as  the  month, 
Low  sun,  high  stars  between, 

The  icy  winds  have  washed  it  clear ; 
But  it,  too,  dreams  of  green. 

The  boats  are  breathing  on  the  sea ; 

They  cannot  wait  for  men; 
Some  undertide  has  brought  them  word 

Straight  from  a  blue-starred  fen. 

Unpiloted  they  steal  away, 

No  man  shall  see  them  soon, 

The  sea  birds  follow  but  a  mile, 
Then  leave  them  to  the  moon. 

We,  too,  shall  steal  upon  the  spring 
With  amber  sails  blown  wide ; 

Shall  drop,  some  day,  behind  the  moon, 
Borne  on  a  star-blue  tide. 

Enchanted  ports  we,  too,  shall  touch, 

Cadiz  or  Cameroon ; 
Nor  other  pilot  need  besides 

A  magic  wisp  of  moon. 

[  32  ] 


ST.  FRANCIS  TO  THE  BIRDS 

Daytime?    The  stars  quite  gone? 
0  brother  Sleep,  you  tripped  me  in  my  prayers, 
And  bound  me  in  your  scarves  of  colored  dreams ! 
Pray  God  the  brethren  find  me  not 
Flat  in  the  dew  and  just  awake. 
Fie  !  fie !  thou  slug-a-bed ! 

Up !  kneel  to  thine  orisons — compose  thy  robe — 
And  get  thee  from  this  green  and  idle  wood 

Back  to  the  world! 
Alas,  the  summer  air  hath  blown 
Shame  from  my  heart !  Jesu,  the  prayers  must  wait — 

Light-hearted  day  on  naked  feet 
Runs  thro '  the  woods,  and  I  must  watch  her  here 

Shaking  the  boughs  above  my  head, 
And  winning  with  her  rogueries  the  leaves'  applause. 

Delicious  so !  .    .    . 
Idler,  pagan,  Francis,  up !    Ah,  well — 

Prophets  and  patriarchs ! 
What  company  is  this? 
The  blessed  birds  of  God- 
Silent  and  orderly,  row  on  row, 
Thick  on  the  branches,  scholarwise  on  the  grass — 
Sparrows  and  swallows,  bobolinks  and  larks — 
Tiny  and  big,  and  gay-  and  hempen-gowned — 
Attentive  all  and  silent;  eyes  on  me — 

[  33  ] 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

Littlest  children,  my  brothers — 0  birds, 

Good  morrow !    For  your  presence  thanks.  .  .   . 

And  yet,  may  I  confess — 
Beseeching  you  will  not  mistake  my  ignorance 
For  lack  of  gentleness  or  knightly  courtesy — 
I  know  not  quite  what  mission  draws  you  here  ? 
Only  has  Father  Noah  seen  such  multitudes. 
Is  it,  perchance,  with  tree-top  news  you  come 

Requiring  such  deliverance? 
Alack,  I  have  not  any  roof  at  all, 

Much  less  an  ark. 

But  should  your  needs  petition  one,  content  your 
selves  ; 

The  brethren  shall  be  willing  carpenters. 
Your  watchful  eyes  and  silence,  courteous  and  prim, 
Betray  I  have  mistook  your  coming's  cause. 
Perhaps  on  your  first- waking  flights, 
Beholding  me  so  quiet  in  the  grass, 
You  thought  me  dead,  and  came  with  friendly  haste 
To  hide  in  leaves  my  obvious  corruption. 
Three  hops  and  a  silver  chuckle — 
Eobin,  irreverent  robin,  wrong  again? 
Ho !  ho !  at  last  the  dear  God  sends  me  sense ! 
A  sermon  'tis!  Robin,  I  guessed! 
Come  nearer,  darling  children,  close ! 
0  lovely  cloud  of  wings !    0  tiny  storm  of  twitter ! 

What  barren  faith  was  ours 
To  pass  you  by  these  many  days 
"Without  one  salutation  in  Christ 's  name, 
Or  news  of  His  impending  kingdom  once ! 
Let  these  poor  words  win  your  forgiveness, 
And  His,  whose  frailest  ones  we  have  o'erlooked. 

[  34  ] 


ST.  FEANCIS  TO  THE  BIEDS 

Brethren!  .  .  . 

Ahem ! — 

(Saints !  what  text  can  serve !) 
' '  In  those  days  Jesus  said : 
My  Father's  kingdom  may  be  likened  to 

A  grain  of  mustard  seed, 
Which,  being  sown,  is  smallest  of  all  seeds, 
But,  growing  up,  is  greatest  of  all  herbs, 
Till  in  the  shadow  of  its  branches  lodge 

The  birds  of  heaven." 
Yet,  no !  these  words  He  never  spoke. 

He  knew  as  you  or  I 
The  idle  ways  of  summer,  and  the  fields 
Where  poppies  in  their  silken  kerchiefs  crowd  the 

wheat, 
And,  when  the  dry,  quick  autumn  winds  had  stripped 

their  scarlet, 

He,  too,  had  seen  their  tiny  million  seeds — 
Mere  dust  beside  the  mustard's  burliness. 
Mark  nodded  or  forgot,  poor  fisherman ! 
How  often  thus  they  understood  Him  not ! 
And  in  these  far-off  days  their  surface  words  we  seize, 
Set  up,  adore,  and  miss  the  gospel  underneath, 

Forgetting  they  were  simple  men, 
And  He,  dear  God,  who  only  aimed  at  simpleness. 
But  still  He  did  say  Heaven 's  kingdom  was  a  tree, 
A  mighty  tree  with  branches'  room  for  all, 
And  sunny  babblement  of  leaves  where  all 
His  winged  ones  might  skim  and  shine  at  ease. 

0  little,  brown  minores, 
Come — let's  skip  the  text!    But  after  it 
In  any  well-conducted  sermon  comes,  you  know, 
[  35  ] 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

The  exhortation.    Now  I  should  proclaim 
The  evil  of  your  lives  and  urge  repentance ! 
"When  summer  dawn  is  here  ?  and  only  choristers  ? 

How  may  it  be  ? 
What  evils  may  I  warn  your  hearts  against? 

What  words  of  guidance  give  ? 
None  come  to  me.  .  .  .No  ownership  is  yours, 
But  winds  and  trees  and  evening  waters  and  the  sun 

Are  yours  in  largesse,  without  counterclaim — 
The  eighth  commandment  was  not  meant  for  you ! 
I  would  not  coax  you  from  your  ways  of  lechery ; 

For  not  your  will,  but  God 's, 
Fills  all  the  April  air  with  mating  and  the  chirp 
Of  love.    Obedient  be  to  His  good  season. 

I  think  ye  do  no  murder,  yet — 
Sometimes  it  grieves  my  very  soul  to  see 
The  lesser  brethren  fly  your  swift  pursuit. 
If  God  directed  so  you  take  your  livelihood, 
'Tis  well,  but  spare,  I  pray,  their  tiny  span  of  bliss 
If  food  less  petulent  may  serve  instead ; 
Nor  their  destruction  ever  make  your  sport. 
Little  children,  no  rebuke  is  meant; 
I  only  pray  your  gentleness.  .   .   . 
Indeed,  indeed,  He  set  your  flight 
Above  the  paths  of  sin!    Advise?  conjure? 

I  do  you  wrong.    Rather,  I  think, 
He  put  it  in  your  hearts  to  come  to  me 

Not  judging  I  could  give 
Morsel  of  help  or  little  twig  of  truth, 
But  that  the  comfort  of  your  presence  might  be  mine. 
For  sometimes,  little  brethren  of  the  woods, 
We,  in  the  common  world  beneath  your  trees, 
[  36  ] 


ST.  FRANCIS  TO  THE  BIEDS 

So  clearly  see  the  weakness  and  the  sin  about, 

That  only  them  we  see,  and  we  forget 
The  holiness  that  still  persists,  the  light,  yea,  God, 

Himself ! 

Belike  He  feared  for  me  such  hour, 
And  in  His  care  sent  you,  His  seraphs  of  the  trees. 
For  you,  tho '  of  the  world,  share  not  its  taint, 

Nor  breathe  nor  know  its  sin. 
If  we  lived  so,  the  sudden  curve 
And  anxious  fanning  of  soft  plumes 

Would  stir  our  bending  heads, 

And  off  we'd  fly  to — to  that  same  mustard  tree  of 
yours ! 

Was  ever  such  a  sermon? 
I,  no  text ;  no  morals,  you ! 
Let 's  call  it  then  no  sermon,  but  instead 
I  '11  sit  within  the  shadow  of  this  tree 
With  you  companionably  close, 
And  while  the  hoyden  breeze  on  emerald  wings 
Lets  through  the  shimmering  lances  of  the  sun, 
And  hums  aloud  for  wantonness — we  11  gossip  ! 

Oh,  not  of  sin  or  other  grave  concern, 
But  right  familiarly  of  what  we  know — His  life. 
Saints !  what  a  fluttering 
And  sparkle  of  expectancy ! 
Upon  my  lap  at  last,  robin  of  mine  ? 
'Twas  thus  about  His  knees  that  day 
The  children  came  and  begged  for  tales, 
Vexing  poor  Matthew,  and  bequeathing  us 
His  dearest  page. 

[  37  ] 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

Let  me  see  ...  all  ... 
The  book  is  not  so  full  of  tales  for  birds ; 

'Twas  writ  for  men,  you  see. 
I  doubt  not  men  had  far  the  greater  need — 

'Twas  not  because  he  loved  you  less ! 
But  now  I  do  recall  a  story ;  one  you  11  love — 

That  day  by  Jordan ! 

They  had  been  urchin  comrades  years  before, 
That  lonely  Jordan  prophet  and  our  Lord, 
But  him  the  wilderness  and  stars  and  solitude 
Had  swallowed  up  this  many  a  day. 
So  now  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears 
To  see,  across  the  grass  where  all  the  people  sat, 
The  little  boy  he  loved  run  to  him,  call  his  name, 
And  in  the  cool,  clear  water  kneel 

To  beg  his  blessing. 

The  desert  had  not  dried  his  heart  away ; 
And    so    he    wept,    and    clasped    Him    close,    and 

prayed.  .   .   . 
But  I'd  forgot  the  Holy  Ghost ! 

He  could  have  been 
A  scarlet  cloud  of  seraphim,  a  lightning  bolt, 

Fire  or  darkness,  what  He  willed ! 
But  what  chose  He  ?  what  creature  honored  there  ? 
From  out  of  Heaven  He  flew — a  lovely  dove ! 

That  was  a  day  for  birds ! 
Sure,  you  must  love  the  Holy  Ghost — and  keep 
Your  hearts  and  plumage  clean  and  bright  for  Him, 
And  make  your  morning  baths  baptismal  in  a  way ! 

[  38  ] 


ST.  FEANCIS  TO  THE  BIRDS 

Another  story  I  recall,  dear  children. 
But  whether  it  be  writ  or  only  dreamed 
I  cannot  say.  .   .  .  Gethsemane  .  .  . 
My  heart  is  there  so  much,  I  do  remember  more, 
Perhaps,  than  they  that  set  it  down.  .  .   . 
It  is  not  spring  talk  for  a  golden  dawn, 
But  even  you,  gleamers  of  God,  should  know. 
Before  the  end  He  longed  to  come  once  more 
To  that  familiar  garden  that  He  loved. 
Its  olive  trees  and  sandy  barrenness 

That  drank  the  moon  were  home  to  Him, 
For  other  home  He  had  not,  save 

Such  waste  and  lonely  places  off  the  way 

As  men  forgot.    And  so  that  night,  the  last,  He  knew, 

That  He  might  pray  together  with  the  twelve, 

He  came  unto  the  garden  where  it  lay 

All  full  of  moonlight  and  of  silence, 

And  with  Him  brought  for  comfort  them  He  loved. 

Indeed,  He  loved  us  all — too  well,  too  well — 

But  ah,  the  mortal  of  His  heart  had  need  to  choose 

For  special  tenderness,  those  few. 

How  tired  He  was !    Oh,  weary  unto  death ; 

And  needed  most  mere  human  love ! 

But  they  whom  He  had  chosen,  whom  He  loved, 

His  own,  His  very  own — they  slept ! 

God!    God! 

Had  Lancelot  or  Tristran  been  His  knights, 

They  had  not  slept.  .  .  . 

When  those  we  love  have  failed  us  in  our  need 

There  is  no  bitterness  undrunk  for  death.  .   .  . 

That  night,  as  thus  He  lay, 

After  the  prayer,  too  tired  for  tears, 

C  39  ] 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

And  even  God  forgot  Him  with  the  rest, 
I  think  that  one  of  you,  beholding  from 
The  shadows  where  you  hid,  that  agony, 
Trembled  and  paused  and  bent  your  head, 
Then,  for  you  knew  no  other,  quavered  forth 
Your  silver  serenade  for  healing  to  His  heart.  .  .  . 
The  torches  and  the  sudden  faces  broke 
Your  song.  .   .   .  Likely  He  never  heard  .   .   . 
But    only    you    bethought    to    comfort    Him    that 
night.  .  .  . 

They  slept  .  .  .  God !    Let  me  back  into  the  world ! 

Lest  coming  suddenly  again 

He  find  them  sleeping  still. 

Good-bye,  good-bye ! 

Remember  to  give  thanks  each  day  to  Him 
Who  made  your  feathers  clean  and  fair  and  warm, 
Who  set  within  your  hearts  clear  springs  of  happiness, 
Who  shares  with  you  His  home,  the  sacred  sky. 
And  I  beseech  you,  little  brothers,  think 
On  us,  who,  soaring,  never  leave  the  earth. 
0  swallows,  should  you  see,  when  evening  comes, 
One  leaning  from  his  darkened  window,  dark, 
His  eyes  unlighted,  bitter  with  the  day's  defeat, 
Toss  where  your  vagrant  flight  may  catch  his  gaze ; 
For,  as  you  scatter  up  the  golden  sky, 
Haply  he  may  remember  Jacob's  dream, 
The  ladder  and  the  wings,  and,  holpen,  send  his  heart 
In  God's  light  careless  way  to  climb  with  you. 

And  you,  sweet  singers  of  the  dark, 
That  tune  your  serenades  but  by  the  stars, 
Love  gardens  most ; 
[  40  ] 


ST.  FEANCIS  TO  THE  BIEDS 

For  garden  casements  do  unlock  themselves 

With  magic  silentness  unto  your  spell, 

And  music  unto  sleepless  eyes  doth  bring 

The  lonely  solace  of  unloosened  tears. 

But  most,  you  morning  choristers,   that  haunt  the 

eaves, 

"Whose  little  voices  like  a  hundred  stars 
Shine  just  before  the  sun,  tapping  with  dreams 
The  lazy  sleep  that  lingers  on  our  lids, 
Fail  not  to  keep  your  matins  clear  for  us ; 
And  should  you  know,  by  some  bird  craft  of  yours, 
The  room  wherein  an  almost  mother  lies, 
Choir  your  sweetest  there,  as  tho '  the  babe  to  come 
Were  son  of  God — for  so  he  is ! 
Again,  farewell! 

I  cannot  leave  ye  thus ! 

0  Father,  I  have  failed! 

What  truth  can  they  recall 

That  I  have  given  them  ? 
None,  none !    And  now  the  hour  is  past ! 
Birds,  birds,  stay  yet  and  harken  this  last  word, 
Too  simple  to  be  long  remembered ;  but,  forgot, 
Taking  the  shining  and  the  wings 
And  all  seraphic  meaning  from  the  life  we  know — 
And  you  that  glisten  through  the  lovely  blue, 
Not  singly,  but  in  shoals  and  multitudes, 
Bear  witness  to  the  truth  that  I  would  tell : 
That  child  of  God,  man-child  or  bird-child 
Or  silver-winged  star-child  of  the  night, 
That  lives  apart,  unto  himself, 
[  41  ] 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

Unsharing,  unsolicitous,  and  free, 

Hath  vainly  lived ;  for  life,  this  present  life, 

Is  but  the  throe  to  brotherhood ! 

Behold  our  hearts,  which  we  forget  or  hide, 

Are  fashioned  so  in  likeness  to  His  own, 

That  only  joy  of  all  can  bring  them  bliss, 

And  every  special  woe  must  bring  them  pain. 

So  long  as  one, 

But  one  of  all  His  children  knoweth  grief, 

So  long  we  sorrow  too.    Nor  can  there  be  a  heaven 

Till  hell  be  tenantless.  .  .  . 

The  love  we  bear  hath  neither  gates  nor  walls 

To  keep  men  out,  but  tendereth  itself 

A  refuge  city  to  the  shelterless, 

Calling  across  the  tempest-shadowed  plain 

Unceasingly,  "Come  in,  come  in!" 

And,  for  they  will  not  come,  but  scatter  far, 

Grieving  and  hurt  and  blind  into  the  storm, 

There  is  no  peace  for  us,  and  all  our  days 

Are  hungered  for  the  sight  of  them  that  stray, 

Are  empty  to  the  cry  that  sounds  in  vain, 

' l  Come  in,  come  in ! "  .  .  . 

So  must  it  be — now. 

But  I  perceive  another  day  not  too  far  off ; 
And  in  that  day  there  shall  not  one  remain 
Uncleansed  of  tears  and  sin  and  every  stain; 
And  in  that  day,  behold,  the  golden  droves 
Of  His  light  creatures  shall  invade  the  dawn, 
Shall  stream  across  the  hush  beyond  all  stars, 
And  people  those  celestial  places  He  hath  planned. 

[  42  ] 


ST.  FRANCIS  TO  THE  BIRDS 

Some  day.  .   .  .  But  now  .  .  . 
I  go  to  them  that  have  the  greater  need. 
God's  blessing  steep  your  hearts  in  peace, 
And  all  your  deeds  in  patient  tenderness. 

My  name !  .  .  .  They  call  me  through  the  woods ! 

Quick,  quick !  away !  .   .   .  Here,  Egidio !    I  come ! 

Up,  up  into  the  leaves,  lest  seeing  you 

They  say  there  was  a  miracle ! 

Go !    But  birds,  my  birds,  come  back  to  me ! 


[  43  ] 


L  ARCADY  LOST 

The  cherry  bloom  and  robin  time  of  year 
Again  is  come ;  and  we  that  shepherd  still 
Among  less  heavenly  pastures  feel  the  fear 
Of  spring  again,  and  all  the  tears  that  thrill 
But  never  fall.    Last  night,  across  the  shine 
Of  iris-tinted  skies,  I  heard  the  dim 
Enraptured  song  we  knew,  the  dire  divine 
Music,  that  once,  beyond  the  violet  rim 
Of  pain,  could  waft  us  clear  to  where,  our  own, 
Th'  unstable  faery  shores  of  ecstasy 
Burn  in  the  twilight  of  an  April  sea. 
Our  music  came  last  night  to  me  alone. 

No  more  may  song  nor  petalled  fluttering 
Upbreathe  frail,  frail  delight  as  in  the  days 
We  clung  together  here.    Instead,  they  bring 
The  pain  of  hearts  that,  glamourous  still  with 

spring, 

Break,  and  the  dread  of  star-lit,  lonely  ways 
"Where  once,  0  comrade  mine,  we  heard  them  sing. 


[  44  ] 


ON  LEAVING  TAORMINA 

0  almond  trees,  beneath  whose  fruited  shade 

1  lay  these  summer  days  and  saw  the  sea, 
The  hills  of  Mola,  and  Calabria's  jade, 
Good-bye !    Perhaps  the  god  that  yielded  me 
Such  luxury  of  happiness,  these  clear 

And  brimming  hours  with  you,  will,  in  his  grace, 
Yield  none  again ;  and,  summer,  finding  here 
Your  branches  green,  will  find  again  the  place 
I  love,  not  me.    Thro'  all  the  leafy  years, 
Others  will  come  and  love  your  loveliness ; 
Love  with  a  heart  as  gay  and  free  of  fears 
As  mine,  and,  leaving,  leave  their  souls  no  less. 
But,  ah,  for  me,  when  spring  stands  in  the  door, 
Take  on,  I  pray,  one  shade  of  pink  the  more. 


[  45  ] 


DUSK:  ASSUAN 

Serene,  he  mounts  the  minaret  of  day; 

Where  purple  spreads  the  world  his  footsteps  pause. 

Splendors  from  whence  he  rose  still  flame  his  grey 

And  amethystine  robes  to  golden  gauze. 

Priestly  and  pure,  he  stands  within  the  curve 

Precipitous  that  fronts  the  chasmed  west. 

The  blowing  birds  that  wove  his  hem  in  swerve 

And  arabesque  of  jet,  flicker  to  rest. 

And  now  his  voice,  a  tide  of  silence,  pours 

Across  the  desert 's  pallor  and  the  palms : 

"Come  forth  to  God  from  all  your  darkened  doors.' 

Who  pause  for  prayer?    Partake  the  sacred  calms? 

Pass  and  repass  the  women  with  their  jars ; 

But  faithful  come  those  worshipers,  the  stars. 


THE  COAST  OF  BOHEMIA 

Like  some  still  angel  who,  in  toilless  might, 

The  empyrean  cleaves  with  unstirred  wings, 

Heedless  of  his  proud  speed  save  where  it  springs 

About  his  feet  like  blown,  quick-curling  light — 

So  passed  our  ship  in  soft,  gloom-charmed  flight, 

Midmost  a  huge,  drear  shade  of  sea  and  air, 

Voiceless,  indissoluble,  saving  where 

Prowwards  awoke  two  folds  of  fiery  white. 

The  wash  of  dim  infinity,  the  swoon 

Of  vasty  quiet  hushed  us.    Then  the  least 

Dawn  quivered — nay,  the  east  dreamed  of  the  moon. 

Breathless,  we  watched.    Again !    Ah,  elfin  east ! 

The  white  day  leaped  upon  the  world.    The  miles 

Of  sea  flamed  loose — and  then  we  saw  those  isles. 


[47  ] 


TO  THE  MISSISSIPPI 

They  came  from  fierce,  burnt  Spain  to  seek  for  gold 
Upon  thy  shores,  and  with  superb,  strange  prows 
Dazzled  the  wilderness.    Their  proud,  swarth  brows 
With  gorgeous  lust  of  gems  and  trove  made  bold 
The  river  folk  feared  as  the  gods  of  old. 
But,  lo !  thy  gods  awaking,  the  deep  drowse 
Of  death  their  chief  assuaged  of  quests  and  vows, 
And  him,  not  disillusioned,  thou  didst  fold. 
No  dreams  of  gold  or  jeweled  glebe  now  force 
Thy  stream  with  ships  adventuring ;  and  tho ' 
Thy  flood  in  yellowed  opulence  doth  flow, 
'Tis  not  from  stain  of  deep,  corroded  treasure. 
Imperial  indolence  is  thine  and  pleasure 
Of  hot,  long  listlessness  and  moody  course. 


IN  DALMATIA 

A  brotherhood  of  bleached,  air-scourged  peaks 
In  desolation  watch  the  Illyrian  sea. 
Them  twice  the  lidless  day  brings  ecstasy ; 
Their  leperous  fronts  but  twice  a  splendor  freaks. 
Once,  when  the  anguish-heedful  dawn  unspeaks 
Their  woe  with  rich,  deep -blushed  divinity ; 
Again,  when  'neath  eve 's  balm  they  tower  free 
Like  Tyrian  tents  of  purple-amorous  sheiks. 
As  they  with  light,  so  man  with  vision  twice 
Scorns  pain.    First,  when  the  bowl  of  life  in  bliss 
Youth  holds,  sees  all — grape,  dregs,  and  sleepy  spic( 
Then  stoops  his  head  to  drink  as  tho'  to  kiss. 
And  last,  when  to  the  verge  of  death  he  strives, 
Pauses  to  gaze  adown,  and,  smiling,  dives. 


INVOCATION 

Sleep  of  the  cooled  lids  and  breath  of  flowers, 
0  sleep  of  youth,  dew-sandaled  from  the  leas, 
Throated  with  music  of  ensilvered  showers 
And  silken  winds  that  flash  against  the  trees ; 
0  summer  sleep  of  passionate  innocence, 
Clean  as  the  morning  stars  of  doubt  and  pain, 
If  dreamful,  not,  oh,  not  at  the  expense 
Of  tears,  but  fresh  with  news  from  fancy 's  Spain- 
Revisit  with  thy  tranced  healing  sweet 
These  eyes  that  have  forgot  almost  thy  spell, 
Sail  back  with  all  thy  joyous-freighted  fleet 
Down  the  long  azure  of  my  spirit 's  swell. 
And  for  thy  traffic  with  that  brooding  stream 
Bring  back  the  purple  to  my  hills  of  dream. 


[  50] 


TO  CHATTERTON 

Immortal  boy !  whose  years  scarce  reached  my  own, 

And  yet  were  filled  with  all  the  kinless  grief 

Devolving  on  old  age,  without  relief 

Of  stagnant  brain,  of  nerveless  blood  and  bone — 

At  dusk,  when  wind-swept  autumn  woods  are  lone, 

I,  who  of  Fortune's  bounty  am  the  thief, 

Gold-filled,  I  muse  upon  thy  life,  so  brief, 

So  passionate,  and,  envying  thee,  I  moan. 

For  dreaming  thus,  there  comes  a  specter  thought 

Which  fastens  on  my  soul  and  leaves  it  grey 

With  fear.    If  Death,  who  found  thy  field  so  fraught 

With  golden  harvest,  now  to  me  should  say 

* '  Enough,  'tis  Autumn ' ' — God !  no  harvest  yet 

Have  I,  and  still  my  fields  are  green  and  wet. 


[  51  ] 


THE  SILENT  SINGERS 

And  Proserpine,  still  fragrant  of  the  air 

And  upper  brightness,  bore  him  children — him 

Whose  heart,  not  knowing  Sicily,  was  bare 

Of  songs,  whose  sunless  mouth  was  dumb.    That  grim 

Illimitable  cold  was  alien 

Always ;  and  always,  hopeful  of  the  song 

Of  birds,  she  leaned  and  thought  to  find  again 

Those  blooms  that  watch  the  tearless  stars  so  long 

They  weep.    When  to  her  kingdom  came  the  dead, 

Still  glistening  with  tears  and  asphodel, 

Forgetting  all  save  home,  their  eyes  she  read, 

Wherein  the  sweet,  far  earth  seemed  yet  to  dwell. 

Behold,  the  blue  South  in  our  hearts  like  wine — 
But  Pluto 's  mouth,  0  Mother  Proserpine ! 


WILD  GEESE 

When  naked  winter  on  the  midnight  falls 
With  icy  macerations,  hook  and  flail, 
They  come — with  rush  of  wings  and  signal  calls — 
The  mighty  birds  that  home  the  north,  full  sail 
Upon  the  blast.    Their  unseen  cohorts  high, 
Breasting  the  stars,  make  purpose  proud  to  shun 
All  pausing,  till  beneath  them,  tranquil,  lie 
Day  and  the  silver  marshes  of  the  sun. 
But  should  the  floor  of  darkness  festal  grow, 
As  far  beneath  some  town  unbraids  its  lights, 
Eouted,  deceived,  heart-set  to  gain  the  glow, 
They  drop ;  nor  join  again  the  sunward  flights. 

Was  it  their  cries  I  heard,  remote,  withdrawn, 
Or  spirit  choirs  dark-flying  towards  some  dawn  ? 


[  53  ] 


FAILURE 

For  them  that  on  the  mountain  fight  beneath 

The  visioned  ensigns  of  the  unknown  God, 

Tho'  battle-anguish  be  their  only  wreath, 

Failure  their  palm,  their  victory  the  sod — 

I  have  no  tears.    Compassion  not  that  band, 

Patriots,  poets,  dreamers,  men  of  prayer, 

The  common  reachers  after  right.    The  hand 

Impelling  them  thus  blindly  to  lay  bare 

Their  hearts  to  that  unequal  contest,  grants 

Solace  divine  for  their  divine  attempt. 

For  them  that  know  not  strife,  nor  hear  the  chants 

Precedent  to  the  bloody  end 's  contempt — 

For  them  unloose  your  tears !    Their  life  is  sleep, 

Unvigilant,  un wounded ;  they  but  sheep ! 


EX 


Not  for  more  hours  of  bliss  I  make  demand, 
0  life  !    So  many  thou  hast  flung  with  hand 
Of  summer.    Grant  instead  for  winter's  hem 
Of  sunshine,  certain  memory  of  them. 


TO  MILTON 

As  well  house  up  the  homeless  Bedouin  stars 
And  tent  them  permanent  on  the  night's  great  desert, 
As  thy  steep  thoughts  to  circumscribe  and  fix 
With  human  tears  or  home  or  human  love ; — 
Thou  nomad  of  God 's  universal  night ! 


[  55  ] 


TO  LUCREZIA 

Pause  we  within  the  sunset,  love ; 
Rare  is  such  time — so  lovely  and  so  passionless — 
And  sweeter  far  than  when  the  proud,  gold  morning 
Withers  the  dew  with  scorn  and  in  his  youth. 

Pause  here  and  let  me  speak 
As  lover  never  spoke  to  one  he  loved. 
How  clear  the  west,  unpinionable,  and  all  gold, 
As  tho '  to  cleanse  us  for  the  coming  of  the  stars ! 
Now  even  we  are  worthy  of  the  truth ; — 

I,  to  lay  bare,  and  thou,  to  hear. 
But  yet,  the  words  may  stab ;  nor  am  I  brave — 

So,  pr  'ythee,  turn  from  me  thine  eyes, 

Nor  let  me  see  thy  perilous,  curved  mouth, 

Crimson  as  flame,  and  cold  as  blooms  at  dawn. 

So.     (My  words  seem  shackled — 

Sluggish  with  frosty  truth).  .   .   . 

That  moment  long  ago  when  thee  I  saw, 
And  straight  the  whole  world  'came  invisible, 

That  time  of  passionate  oblivion, 
Once  seemed  to  me  the  incarnation  time 
Of  love,  the  heaven-sent,  the  Paraclete ! 
Thus  have  I  told  thee ;  thus  believed. 

But,  ignorant,  I  lied. 
No  spirit  of  the  Lord  anointed  paused 
Within  the  portals  of  my  heart  on  hallowed  feet. 
Not  that,  but  some  young  god, 

[  56  ] 


TO  LUCREZIA 

With  blown,  bright  hair  and  fillet  golden,  came, 
And,  stretching  forth  the  blossoming  rod  of  beauty, 

Upon  me  wrought  a  pagan  spell. 
Not  love,  not  love, — nor  then,  nor  now ! 
If  Christ  should  halt  beside  this  spot  to  touch  my 

hand, 

It  would  not  be  to  claim  my  soul  as  friend ; 
But  I  should  hear  the  sound  of  fearful  things 

That  rush  into  the  sea. 
This  fierce  obsession  of  my  waking  hours, 
This  visioning  that  makes  night  ecstasy, 
It  is  not  love.    And  this  the  proof. — 
Ah,  heart's  desire,  should  thy  strong  beauty  fail 

As  fails  the  beauty  of  the  fields, 
Or  foam  blown  where  the  seas  are  beachless, 
To  me  long,  sweet  forgetfulness  would  come, 
And  summer's  ease,  once  known,  now  long  ago. 

Thy  words  are  music  rich  within  mine  ear, 
But  yet,  I  listen  not  if  there  be  meaning  in  them. 

Thine  eyes,  like  winter  seas, 

Dim  grey,  with  thought  of  green  and  fear  of  blue, 
Thy  listening  eyes,  immeasurably  still — 
Oh,  are  they  still  with  dreams,  and  sleep 
Deeper  than  waking?     Or  with  the  drowse 
Of  inner  lassitude  and  sheer  vacuity  of  soul  ? 

I  dare  not  guess, 

But,  careless,  drink  their  cool,  Circean  sorcery. 
Hast  thou  a  heart  ?    I  cannot  say ; 
For,  where  it  may  not  be  I  once  did  watch 
A  thought  surge,  flaming  all  thy  wintry  white 
To  blossoming  spring. 

[  57  ] 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

Mayhap,  thy  soul  twines  deep  with  God's. 

Mayhap  ...  I  know 

Thy  body's  whiteness  and  old  Grecian  grace 
As  to  one  seeking  glimpse  of  the  huge  sea, 
Might  come  as  hindrance  on  the  slopes 

An  almond  tree, 

Leaning  in  ecstasy  of  petalled  beauty,  so 
Betwixt  thy  soul  and  mine  riseth  alway 
This  barrier — thy  loveliness ! 


A  PAGE  SINGS 

Where  leads  my  way? 
By  trees  that  flutter  in  the  wind, 

By  fields  half  blind 
With  dew,  by  halls  where  I  may  find 

At  afterday, 

Heathen  or  fay. 

I  pass  and  sing. 
With  cool-eyed  youth  and  all  delight 

I  am  bedight — 
From  morning  light  to  morning  light 

Adventuring. 

One  song  I  sing. 

Beneath  the  blue, 
The  lithe  trees  lean  my  song  to  hear. 

It  is  so  clear 
Even  their  blytheness  it  can  cheer — 

For  fresh  and  true, 

'Tis  all  of  you ! 


[  59  ] 


WINTER-FEAR 

The  rain  has  come. 
Gone  the  empurpled  air 
Which  hung  upon  the  golden  wreckage  of  the  trees. 

The  rain  has  come, 
And  one  no  longer  sees 

The  sun.    The  radiance  that  lay  upon  the  vair 
And  crimson  of  the  earth  is  vanished  with  these. 

The  wind  is  up. 
It  greits;  nor  dazzles  now 
The  quiet  lanes  with  ruined  autumn's  gorgeousness. 

The  wind  is  up, 
But  tho'  the  boughs  confess 
Its  potency,  of  jeweled  tribute  they  allow 
No  leaf.    The  earth,  Danae  once,  is  treasureless. 

Winter  is  come — 
The  night-cursed,  fearful  days, 
Stained  and  blurred  with  tears  and  querulous  with 

pain. 

Winter  is  come, 
And  if  my  heart  refrain 

Most  bitterly  from  backward  looks  when  pitying  stays 
The  sun,  then,  God !  what  agony  these  days  of  rain ! 


[  60  ] 


TO  A  MOCKING-BIRD :  FROM  TAORMINA 

The  nightingale  has  a  golden  heart, 
And  a  silver  heart  the  wren ; 

But,  oh,  for  me  the  bold,  bright  bird 
That  sings  with  the  heart  of  men ! 

His  music  is  not  of  seas  forlorn, 

His  magic  is  not  of  tears ; 
From  tilted  throat  his  raptures  float 

And  tumble  in  laughter  and  jeers. 

He  does  not  cease  when  daylight  dies, 
But  he  sings  right  on  to  the  dark ; 

The  stars  or  moon  may  die  or  swoon, 
In  the  drip  of  the  rain — 0  hark ! 

He  does  not  cease  when  spring  is  done, 
And  his  mate  with  love  is  fled ; 

A  fairer  thing  than  love  or  spring 
Is  life.    And  the  fall  is  red. 

Sing,  nightingales  and  silver  wrens 
And  fairy  throats  that  can; 

But  the  bird  I  love  is  the  darling  bird 
"With  the  free,  proud  heart  of  a  man. 


[  61  ] 


AFTER  READING  THE  RUBAIYAT 

Still  burning,  let  me  cast  the  cup  of  youth  aside, 

Or  else,  with  one  deep,  purple  draught, 
Crush  it  and  toss  its  unregretted  pieces  wide 
To  windwards,  and  the  latter  days  abide. 

What  if  the  spicery  of  summer  be  forspent, 
And  night 's  own  argent  madness  gone  ? 
The  shining  Bacchanal  of  youth  was  always  rent 
By  cries  the  circling  dark  and  stars  had  sent. 

And  tho '  warm-lidded  lechery  was  sweet,  I  knew 

The  discontent  of  higher  dreams, 
And  how  the  red-lipped  sweetness  changed  and  staled 

and  grew 
A  thing  the  dewy  dancers  feared  to  view. 

0  loveliest  of  all  the  wreathed  revellers, 

Break,  break  the  cup,  the  wine  forswear. 
Courageous,  thee  and  me  a  lordlier  vintage  stirs — 
The  blood  of  life  ?s  unraptured  warriors. 


[  62  ] 


A  WINTER'S  NIGHT 

The  wind  has  reverenced  the  splendor  of  the  night. 

Westward  upon  the  green  and  saffron  light 
Of  dusk  it  passed,  with  vasty  wings  and  voice  not  low, 

Fleeing  with  awe  the  splendor  of  the  night. 

Were  I  the  wind  to-night,  the  tangled  stars  and  snow 
My  aweless  wings'  unfettered  might  would  know. 

0  joy,  the  tranced  splendor  of  the  air  to  shake 
And  starward  hurl  like  spray  the  errant  snow ! 

Ah,  for  the  tyranny  of  furious  wings,  to  wake 

Superb,  this  ecstasy  of  calm ;  to  slake 
My  passion- winnowed  heart  with   tempests'   windy 
woe! 

I  would  to-night  the  storms  were  all  awake ! 


[  63  ] 


AT  PARTING 

And  so  we  part ! 

You  with  your  vague,  sweet  smile, 
I  with  a  breaking  heart ; 
You  to  your  vague,  sweet  ways, 
I  where  the  failures  start. 

"We  lingered  long ! 
You  for  mere  idleness, 
I  for  your  mouth  like  song ; 
You  for  the  flattery, 
I  for  your  beauty  strong. 

Our  lips'  last  touch ! 
Yours  cold  as  mere  consent, 
Mine  colder  were  there  such. 
And  you  will  never  know, 
And  I  have  known  too  much. 

Parting  sublime! 
Already  you've  forgot, 
I  will  forget  in  time. 
You  sigh  without  regret, 
And  I  have  heart  to  rhyme. 


[  64  ] 


BEFORE  DAWN 

Breath  of  the  dawn,  breath  of  the  dawn, 
Breathe  on  my  heart  of  thine  eagerness. 
Up  from  the  sea,  youthful  with  thee, 

Be  drawn 
For  a  spell  and  a  healing  to  me 

In  my  stress. 

With  the  shining  of  silver  yet  on  thy  feet, 
With  the  fleeing  of  stars  that  are  flameless  fleet, 
With  the  cool  of  the  sea  for  the  cool  of  thine  eyes, 

Arise 

And  come  to  my  need ! 

From  the  grey  of  the  unstarred  eastern  skies 
Oh,  speed! 

Up  from  the  sea,  up  from  the  sea, 
Come  with  thine  eagerness,  girlishly ; 
Sweep  with  the  quiver  and  gleaming  of  thee 
Dark  from  my  heart  like  dew  from  the  lawn ; 
With  the  cool  of  thy  coming,  half  stars  and  half  sun, 
Deliver  my  soul  from  the  deeds  that  atfe  done — 
Breath  of  the  dawn,  breath  of  the  dawn, 
Purify  me. 


[65  ] 


LONGING 

At  last  the  sunset  and  the  quietness ; 
The  iron  clutch  of  day  loosened  at  last. 
Here  where  the  sky  is  limpid  loveliness 

And  depth  on  depth  of  peace,  I  may  forget 
The     fretful     work-a-day     and     midgy     round     of 

things  .   .   . 

A  smothered  pain  the  long,  long  day. 
Nor  does  forgetting  come  with  dark  and  nights  of 

dream ; 

But  sweet  with  pain  and  filmed  tenderness 
This  hour  of  the  pity  of  all  things.  .   .  . 
Grey  as  slow  tears,  the  dusk  blurs  out  the  trees ; 
The  colors  ebb  beneath  the  western  marge; 
And  homing  come  the  birds — 
Not  singly  come  they,  but, 
With  throated  happiness,  together. 
But  we  no  more  shall  come  together  home, 

Nor  hear  their  twittering  gusts, 
Nor  watch  the  deep  west  come  more  deep 

Till  we  behold  the  stars, 
So  bright  they  must  but  now  have  wept. 

Oh,  for  one  hour  to-night, 
One  little  hour  with  you — 

To  touch  your  hand — 
To  lean  within  the  halo  of  your  perfume — 
To  watch,  as  those  sweet  many  times, 
[66  ] 


LONGING 

Together,  love,  the  young,  white  moon, 
Like  some  strange  petal  blown  into  our  round  of  space 

From  out  the  cool  abysms  of  the  night, 
Where  unknown  blossoms  bloom  for  unknown  eyes 
To  gaze  upon  in  wistfulness.  .  .  . 
A  little  while  to  watch, 
And  then,  together,  home. 


[  67  ] 


PHAON  IN  HADES 

To-day  the  very  dead  would  love  his  face ; 
And,  loving  them,  I  wish  that  to  their  place 
Of  woe  his  feet  might  find  awhile  the  way, 
And  ease  them  with  perfection  for  a  space. 
His  beauty  is  so  beautiful  to-day. 

As,  when  its  freight  of  dew  is  blown  away, 
The  grass  uprises,  so  would  they  uprise, 
Those  ancient  dead,  and  shake  their  anguish  grey, 
Breathing  his  coolness  and  his  glad  surprise 
As  'twere  the  blow  and  glittering  of  day. 

Ashine  with  clinging  petals  and  late  tears, 
Sweet  with  aroma  of  Sicilian  green, 
I  see  the  dear,  dear  dead  make  way  and  lean 
To  catch  the  summer  of  his  mouth,  the  sheen 
Of  laughter  in  those  eyes  that  wisdom  fears. 

And,  ah !  Persephone  !    She  hath  forgot 
The  pallor  and  the  poppied  heaviness — 
Upon  her  wine-red  heart  her  hand  is  hot. 
If  thus  the  very  dead,  'twere  sure  excess 
Of  blame,  were  I  to  love  his  beauty  less ! 


GIRGENTI 

So  many  here  have  struggled,  fought  the  fight! 

Life  after  life  so  many  here  have  flung 
As  incense  to  the  gods,  that  served — for  what 
Save  Cerberus'  tollto  nothingness? 
Of  what  avail  to  them,  to  us, 
Their  gaunt  resistance  and  their  trust  ? 
Across  the  clear,  sad  light  of  centuries, 
Their  epitaph  reveals  what  line  of  comfort? 
Those  that  with  lit,  courageous  eyes  opposed 
The  mean,  the  merely  earth,  the  less  than  highest, 
Was  recompense  or  special  profit  theirs  ? 
Did  their  names  less  profoundly  plumb 

The  chasms  of  oblivion 
Than  theirs  that  never  fought, 
But,  lightly  submissive,  spread 
The  purple  for  their  summer  hearts 

Within  the  garden's  cool, 
Called  for  the  golden  cups,  the  snowy  wine, 

The  honey-comb,  and  Aphrodite 's  flutes  ? 
To  which  was  happiness  the  booner  comrade  ? 
Sweeter  than  chaplets  hold  you  sweat  and  blood ! 
Than  easy  pomp,  strife  and  hot  tears ! 

Which  likelier  served  the  gods  ? 
Behold  the  gods  of  both  in  ambered  death 
Of  fairy  tales  and  poets'  guile ! 

Which  hold  in  heritage 
Elysian  meadows  and  eternal  May  ? 

[  69  ] 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

Poor  trade,  indeed,  hoped  immortality 
For  hot  lips  and  the  certain  spring! 
Ah !  but  the  nobler  struggle  did  bequeath 
Impetus,  blossom-bearing  warmth  unto 
That  blind  and  mighty  impulse  to  perfection — 
The  race 's  slow,  incessant  upward  surge ! 
Dreams !  dreams !    About,  about,  behold 
Their  bastard-souled  successors, 

Legitimate  in  blood  alone  ! 

Here  once  were  millions ;  gazing  hence,  one  saw 
The  high-hung  walls,  the  teeming  market  place, 

The  colors  and  the  colonnades, 
The  curving  city 's  brilliant  amplitude.  .  .  . 
There  hangs  upon  that  northern  crag, 
As  some  dirt-wasp  had  hovelled  there, 
The  drab  inheritor  of  all  that  purpose ; 
Slattern  of  villages,  where  sat  the  lily-crowned ! 

Golden  Girgenti ! 
Of  soft  Sicilian  cities  goldenest ! 

Gone,  all  gone  thy  gold, 
Save  where  the  rhythm  of  the  ripened  fields 

Sweeps  mellowing  to  the  sea ; 
Save  where  the  lonely  temples  lift  their  pride, 
And  on  their  maimed  and  desecrated  fronts 
The  evening  light  lays  heavenly  pure  hands. 
Gone  thy  gold ;  thy  beauty,  childless,  gone ; 
Gone  alike  the  strugglers  and  the  strife. 
Only  the  bland,  unflashing  blue,  the  Libyan, 
Holds  yet  its  immemorial  loveliness. 
[  70  ] 


GIRGENTI 

Thus  from  the  lofty  temple  steps  at  gaze, 

My  thoughts  came  faltering. 
But  my  proud  heart  leaped  up  in  glittering  mail 
And  called : 

Tho '  the  gods  be  dead  or  never  were ; 
Tho '  death  blow  out  the  flame  and  soul  be  dust ; 

Tho'  generation  follow  generation 
Level,  no  higher  footing  gained,  no  hope 
Broad  day  will  sometime  flood  the  race 
Upon  some  mountain  won  with  agony ; 
Tho '  all  dissolve  and  leave  no  mist  of  gold — 
Yet  vision  only  and  the  strife  therefor 

Shall  I  accept  as  life  ! 

If  here,  across  this  present's  windy  peak,  I  gaze 
Back,  back  across  the  infinite  years, 
And  forward  thro'  the  infinite  to  be — 
Above  the  human  rabble,  past  the  soft 
Guzzlers  against  the  fertile  breasts  of  life, 
I  see,  I  do  behold,  how  proudly,  them 
Whom  blind  nobility,  heroic  uselessness, 
Impelled  to  scorn  all  acquiescence,  brute 
And  easy ;  to  strike  to  the  blood 's  last  crimson  for 

The  dream  of  their  own  making; 
Defenders,  tho'  creators,  of  their  own 
Divinity ;  soldiers  in  sweat,  in  blood, 

Before  the  mouth  of  death. 
So  long  as  one  remain,  but  one, 
To  shout  the  battle  cry  and  take  no  quarter, 
So  long  the  velvet  ease  of  life  is  infamous, 
So  long  I  stand  with  him  and  beard  the  world ! 
[  71  ] 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

Girgenti,  0  Girgenti,  vanished  all  thy  sons ! 
And  only  spring  with  equal  glory  spreads 
Across  thy  hills  its  billows  of  deep  bloom. 

Empedocles,  thy  loveliest,  is  gone; 
And  Daedalus  is  dead ;  his  wings  no  more 
Shall  darken  up  the  east  or  shake  the  sea ; 
Nor  any  make  return  whose  name  thy  mouth 
Smiled  to  repeat.    Yet  not  to  them 
My  heart  gives  hail  across  the  grave. 

Oh,  not  to  them  whose  heralding 
Sufficient  heaven  gave  to  their  attempt. 
But  to  thy  sons,  that,  silently, 

Oblivion-crowned, 

Battled  as  tho '  the  very  gods  made  part, 
And  from  their  golden  ramparts  called  applause. 

Them  do  I  hail  across  the  heavy  mold ; 
And  them  unborn,  foredoomed  to  like  red  death, 
Whose    swords    submit    not    chance,    nor    fate,    nor 

flesh.  .   .   . 
My  brothers,  proud,  tho'  unworthy,  let  me  stand  with 

you 

In  stubborn  rank  against  the  wall  of  doom, 
Opposing  meek  acceptance  of  the  world; 
Scornful  of  scorn  and  vileness  and  black  sloth ; 
Battling,  we  know  not  why ;  dying,  we  care  not  how ; 
Glimpsing  our  kinship  with  the  farther  stars; 
Defeated  always — but  how  splendidly! 


[  72  ] 


THE  HAPPY  ISLES 

How  comes  the  spring  in  those  far  lands  of  yours? 

Tremulous  as  here — and  full  of  wings? 

Full,  too,  of  secrets  and  the  hint 
Of  half  divine  events? 

Do  twilights  there  unfold 
Blue  shadow  petals  to  the  swarm  of  stars? 
And  does  the  hem  of  rapture  darkness  wears 

Glisten,  as  here,  with  tears? 

This  hour  that  we  loved  most, 
My  long  forgetting  like  a  garment  falls. 

How  long  away !    From  you  how  long ! 

Failure  and  tears  and  strife, 
The  intermittent  bubbling  up 

Of  that  deep  loneliness 
All  know,  yet  know  not  to  resist — 
These  come,  but  coming,  wake  not  surely  in  my  heart 
Its  lack  of  you. 

But  yours,  yours  always,  are  the  Happy  Isles ! 
Their  transient,  fortuitous  discovery — 
Rarer  each  year  that  sears  and  falls — 

Brings  back  the  need  of  you. 
And  every  failing  breath  sent  from  their  shores 

Seems  meant  for  two. 
Let  but  the  darkling  hour  as  now 
[73] 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

Move  mystical  upon  the  tides  of  spring, 
And  from  the  vague  horizon's  verge  they  rise. 

The  air  is  unheard  music  that  we  knew; 
Ahead,  familiarly,  the  purple  shallows  shine ; 

I  turn,  I  turn 
To  whom  alone  with  me  is  sovereign  there, 

And,  missing  you, 

Miss,  too,  the  opal  of  their  magic  coves, 
And  scant  the  fugitive,  bland  hour. 

But,  no !  that  thought  would  shade  your  eyes, 

Tho '  fresh  with  immortality. 
Oh,  think  not  you  can  ever  bring  me  pain — 
Or  pain  such  only  as  clear  sunsets  cast ; 
Their  shining  wings  uplift  us  and  their  peace  seems 
home, 

But  sadness  is  their  soul, 
And  all  their  lustral  loveliness  wells  up  from  tears. 

Perhaps,  there,  too,  in  those  far  lands  of  yours, 
Springtime  comes  flowing  like  a  tide  of  dreams, 

Mysterious,  on  bluer  wings, 
Laving  in  magic  more  profound  the  curve  of  lovelier 

shores. 

Yet,  even  there,  perhaps, 
Your  unaccustomed  eyes  yearn  back 
Across  the  spirit-footed  ocean  of  the  air, 
And  you  are  homesick  for  the  earth, 
Twilight,  and  stars  that  are  not  worlds  but  flowers — 
Homesick,  perhaps,  tho '  Paradise  be  yours, 
For  me  and  for  those  isles.  .  .  . 
[  74] 


THE  HAPPY  ISLES 

They  fade;  the  world  returns, 

And  with  them  fades 
The  conjured  vision  of  your  biding  place. 

Soon  may  they  come  again; 
Soon;  on  the  waters  blue  of  twilight, 

Tremulous,  full  of  wings, 
The  purple  of  unrisen  stars  about  their  base, 
And  on  their  crest  the  calm  of  sunset. 


EPILOGUE 

0  God,  author  of  song 
And  of  the  will  to  righteousness, 
Thee  have  I  loved  in  guise  of  him, 
The  golden-haired,  the  beautiful, 
The  incense-tainted  leader  of  the  Nine, 
With  dim,  averted  eyes  and  prescience  of  pain — 
Knowing  Thee  frail  and  perishable,  fit  for  youth. 

The  gardens  of  the  air  were  mine  to  walk  with  Thee, 

Dewed  with  the  stars, 

Swept  with  the  tinted  splendors  of  the  suns. 
Yet  was  the  bliss  too  blissful  to  commend, 
And  Thou,  I  knew,  wert  half  divine,  no  more. 

Thro'  the  live  luxury 
Of  that  aerial  rapture  always 
Crashed  the  vast  battle  sounds  of  earth, 
Where,  tho'  the  many  died,  myself  died  not, 
Where,    tho'   the   many   bled,    myself   un wounded 

went. 
The  pagan  god,  Thyself  half-seen, 

Is  not  enough,  0  God ! 
Here,  on  the  breaking  verge  of  youth, 
Secureless  from  the  fringes  of  the  forward  storm, 
I  face  the  riven  grey  and  call  to  Thee, 

O  God  of  righteousness,  to  Thee ! 
Must  I  forswear  song  and  the  darling  rapture, 
Thy  gifts,  tho'  taintless  of  the  earth,  yet  beautiful? 

[76] 


EPILOGUE 

And  bend  me  to  the  living  of  the  life,  half-armed, 
Lacking  not  valiance,  but  the  accoutrements  where 
with 
Valiance  may  save  itself  from  scorn? 

0  God,  hear  Thou  my  faith  which  is  as  rock : 
Thou  art !    All  else  is  circumstance, 
Random  and  unessential  incident — 

Save  this :  in  me  Thou  art. 
And  so  my  moment  wheels  to  its  sure  end 
Huge  with  divinity,  its  orbit  as  the  sun's, 

Accounted  and  accountable  as  all 
The  chaos-floating,  golden  universe. 

But  mine  to  mar ; 
Mine  to  deliver  unto  death 
True  to  the  disposition  of  its  essence, 
Or  in  fulfillment  bastard  utterly. 

Eternal  Thou ;  but  I 
Swift-passing,  in  the  passing  powerful 
Myself  to  darken  with  deliberate  choice. 
One  life,  but  one,  is  mine. 
I  would  not  have  it  pass 
Failing  its  high,  potential  utmost, 
A  quivering  of  music-shaken  strings — no  more. 

Giver  of  bliss  and  pain,  of  song  and  prayer, 

Thou  God  that  dost  demand 
Single  allegiance  of  the  soul  that  sees 

Thee  dual  only  and  at  enmity — 
Hearken  my  choice,  my  supplication  hark. 
Tear  out  the  rapture  and  the  wings — 
Take  back  thy  gift  of  song — 
[77] 


SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS 

Take,  take  the  madness  of  the  olive  and  the  vine 

With  all  their  ecstasies,  unless  they  be 
Not  oil  for  gleaming  of  the  games  and  clustered  gold, 

Not  wine  for  leafy  laughter  of  the  feast, 
But  aid  and  chrismed  healing  for  the  wounds 
Of  them  that  smitten  lie  on  that  broad  way 

Known  to  the  dusty  sandals  from  Samaria. 
Crush  Thou,  O  God,  the  petalled  crimson  of  my  life, 
So  Thou  but  mold  the  remnant  clay 
To  shape  not  all  unworthy  of  the  Thee  in  me. 


[  78  ] 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


371837 


MAK  1 9  1Q8Q 


FED  2  o 


330472 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


GENERAL  LIBRARY -U.C.  BERKELEY 


BOQ03MMtOM 


